


Ice

by thepeskyunicorn



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Skating, but they be hooking up together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-15
Updated: 2016-03-15
Packaged: 2018-05-26 21:38:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6256840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepeskyunicorn/pseuds/thepeskyunicorn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Q doesn't get out much.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ice

**Author's Note:**

> Taken from: http://otpprompts.tumblr.com/post/139325042243/imagine-person-a-of-your-otp-is-really-good-at
> 
> Imagine person A of your OTP is really good at hockey/figure skating. Person B isn’t. A somehow convinces B to go ice skating with them. Even though B isn’t great at it, they have fun and A thinks they’re adorable.  
> Bonus: if they’ve been in the relationship a long time, A takes B into the center and proposes, B says yes and then falls on their face.

Q doesn't get out much.

Q doesn't get out much because he knows shit like this would happen.

And he especially doesn't go out with James bloody Bond much because things are 63% more like to happen with him around.

Case in point: It's a beautifully cold day, one that makes your nose and heart freeze, where every motion and breath is encased in ice. It was also a slow day at Q branch, and terrorists have decided that today was just not the day to try and start another war, so Q is off official work at an absurdly early time. He had retreated into his office after that, determined to hunker down in his cardigan and a cup of tea and tinker to his heart's content, expecting and receiving no one.

He was halfway through poking at the innards of a robot when Bond strode into his office without bothering to knock. Apparently, shagging a 00 agent on a semi regular basis entitles them to come and bug him at any time they desire without prior warning. Q still hasn't forgotten the time when Bond came back after a hard mission, Q having typed and screamed himself half to death trying to save the man, and proceeded to stand over his desk with a peculiar look on his face. When Q finally dredged up enough strength to acknowledge him, Bond had kissed him hard, maneuvered him over the desk, and fucked him stupid. It was the best damn shag he'd had for a while.

Q hopes it's not happening now, because it's way too cold to be naked, no matter how tantalising the prospect of letting Bond go to town with him. So instead of looking up from his work and greeting Bond, he grunted instead.

“And a good afternoon to you too, Q.” Bond's voice sounded amused.

Q rolls his eyes. He tends to do that a lot around Bond. “What do you want? And,” he held up a finger, the other hand still prodding at a wire. “I'd just like to put it out there that an office liaison is off the table.”

There was a short silence as Q, hyper aware of Bond's presence, could almost hear him smile. 

“Actually, I was hoping you'd go skating with me.”

Q's head shot up, and he scowled at himself for breaking his promise of not looking at Bond. “Excuse me?”

Bond had the self assured smirk of a man who knows he would not be rejected. “Richmond rink is open. I hear Strawberry Hill is beautiful at this time of the year.”

Q stared at Bond, a hundred questions flashing through his mind. This… arrangement, or whatever it is they have, had no specifications or stipulations, and the only thing agreed upon at this period of time is just sex. Q isn't adversed to expanding the scope of this arrangement, but, as with all things are with Bond, there must to be a catch.

“Alright,” he said slowly, withdrawing his hands from the robot. It gave a low whine and powered down. “Why not?”

They left Six in five minutes, Q delegating the more minor tasks to his minions and making R promise to call him if anything major happen. They took the train from Vauxhall to Strawberry Hill, squeezing in with the other disgruntled passengers, Bond's well fitted suit almost too absurd in the parka and layered sweater crowd. They said nothing; there was nothing to say, but Q smiled when Bond placed a possessive hand at the small of his back, leaning into the touch as they rumbled their way there.

Richmond rink is picture perfect pretty at this time of the year, touched with an austere beauty, mostly contributed by the grand house overlooking it. Q immediately catalogues it as a security nightmare.

The woman loaning them the skates gave them a bored once over, pointing to a sign hanging next to her booth indicating the time and rates, before collecting their shoes. It took a while for Q to struggle into his own slightly damp pair. 

Q hasn't skated in a long time; he doesn't usually give himself the luxury of such frivolity. So when Bond stepped on the rink and, well, floated, he considered calling the whole thing off. Bad enough that he was less than Bond in physical capabilities and experience, he'd never hear the end of it if Bond realised he couldn't skate. 

“Can't or won't?” Bond asks, shrewdly perceptive as usual, when he completes a round around the rink, drifting slowly to where Q is still hovering nervously around the lip of the entrance. 

“Can't.” Q answers shortly. “And I will thank you for not making fun of me about it.”

“Why should I?” Bond held out a gloved hand as Q opens his mouth to argue. “Here, let me guide you.”

Q hesitated, staring at the black clad offer. Slowly, carefully, he placed his own, less expensively gloved hands in Bond's, shivering as Bond automatically twines their fingers together, and braced himself to fall.

He wobbles a little, but otherwise stood mostly upright. Through Bond's murmured guidance, he pushed himself a few inches forward with only the slightest stumble, ever aware of the firm grip on his forearms and the intensity of blue eyes watching over him. He could feel a small smile stretching his lips, encouraged by Bond’s honey-warm laughter, simple joy filling him as they skated across the circumference, close enough for the possibilities of friendship and something much, much more.

Which is when everything goes to shit.

Q is the first to notice, his eyes resolutely trained on Bond's chin and neck, only ever flitting up once in awhile to meet his gaze. That was when he noticed the red dot from the corner of his eye, aimed higher up, in the middle of Bond's forehead.

“Get down!” he screams, pulling Bond down and sideways, scrabbling on ice as he tries to push him out of range of sniper fire. Bond goes rigid, resisting instinctively, but Q's weight and clumsy movements were enough to jerk him. The red dot disappears,and there is the sound of bullet striking ice as a hit lands.

Bond is up again in an instant, face frighteningly blank, eyes cold and scanning the distant and pushing Q behind him, drawing out his Walther in practiced movements. Screams erupted around them, and the sniper took the chance to aim and fire again. This time, the shot landed just in front of them.

The ice fractures, not enough for the rink to sink, but enough for the panicked masses to rush for the exits. Q fumbles with his thick coat, hand stiff with cold and urgency, tearing open buttons as Bond started firing in the general direction of the bullets.

He extracts a scope from the coat’s inner pocket, a prototype, designed for identification of enemy in gunfights. Thrusting the device in Bond's hand, he shouted, “Use it to see where they are!”

Part of Q which was wholly detached from the situation wonders idly if this were to be a field test on the weapon and how he would explain it to M if it didn't work and Bond died. The majority of him, which was a few seconds away from informing Q's body to piss himself in fear, shuddered at the thought.

Bond, the smart man, immediately understood, placing the scope to his eye and aimed, not at a window of the house in Strawberry Hill, but at the kiosk where skates were loaned, emptying his gun into the small shack. 

The loud ringing silence is frightening, but there was no return fire. Bond drags them over to the edge of the rink, as far away from the fracturing ice as possible, back against the hard plastic barrier. Q slipped and slid over beside Bond, heart beating in his chest as he tries to make himself as small as possible, the limited field training he had been given coming into play. 

Then Bond is murmuring “Stay here,” voice low and urgent in his ear, before he is skating off, absurdly fast, body lowered and gun cocked. Q pressed himself flat against the barrier, shuddering breaths making puffs of smoke in the air, calming himself down with his calculations of Bond's percentage of survival. It is optimistically high, but he still flinch and gasp when a final gunshot rings out. 

He crouch there for what feels like minutes, hours, days, before Bond skates over, an ethereal ghost, to pull him up into a hug. Q clings to him, pressing his ear close to Bond's chest and letting the steady heartbeat reassure him.

“It was the woman who loaned us the skates,” Bond says, the vibration of his timbre passing pleasantly lulling. “She's an undercover agent gone rogue. Probably from my last mission over in Italy.”

Q wants to say he's sorry, for agreeing to the trip and dragging Bond into danger, for not being more alert, but the absurdity of the thoughts keeps him clinging to Bond's coat as he gently brings them to the exit. The police is already there, along with a few of MI6’s agents, no doubt to clean up the situation. 

“You saved my life,” Bond says, sincerity heavy and startling. “Thank you.” 

And then he leans down to press a chaste kiss against Q's lips, gentle and sweet. It’s so starkly different from what they are used to that Q could feel his brain short circuiting, before he shakes off the fog surrounding his mind, kissing back with a ferocity he cannot express in his words, using teeth and tongue to show his relief.

“So,” Bond says as they broke apart, a little of that heartbreaking smirk playing at the corner of his lips. “How about dinner?”

Q ends up saying yes, because he always does. And later, when he is wined and dined and lying sated with a very naked Bond next to him, murmuring praises into his skin, he cannot help but feel that something has changed, and that this is more than just an arrangement anymore.

**Author's Note:**

> As usual, kudos and comments are much appreciated!


End file.
